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Murmurings of yeses and uh-huhs sound from around the room.

“Wonderful. Now, open your eyes.” She tucks a lock of her frizzy hair behind her ear. I bet she smells like patchouli. “In front of you is a canvas in which you’re going to give your special place life by painting it. Go ahead and use the brushes and paints that are there for you,” she tells us. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, that isn’t the goal. This is an exercise in personal expression and positivity. So, pick up your brushes, relax, and have fun.”

Once she’s satisfied that we are all getting to work, she takes out her phone and starts playing weird meditation music.

I try not to groan as I reach over, pluck a brush out of the holder, and dip it into the cup filled with gray.

It’s these very activities, which I’m sure are designed to make us feel human, that reinforce the fact that I’m different. How many seventeen-year-old kids spend their summers painting places of harmony? None—that’s how many. Only the ones who are so unstable they too can’t even be trusted within these walls of confinement. We’re constantly babysat and treated like toddlers, coaxed throughout our days and spoken to like morons.

I can’t take this activity seriously as I move the brush along the blank canvas, creating a mockery of the intended purpose. My place of serenity doesn’t need my ill-skilled hand disgracing its beauty. It doesn’t need to be brought to life because it already lives inside me. I can still feel the cold, rough driftwood on the backs of my thighs, the wind blowing through my hair, and the frigid sea spray sprinkling my face. The smell of salt embodies my nose and fills my lungs. It’s more than what a stupid painting could encapsulate. And if I did paint it, it would forever be tainted by the memory of this place, this unfortunate woman—this hopelessness.

Time creeps along slowly as Juniper meanders around the room, praising everyone’s efforts. When she makes her way to my side and observes my creation, she says, “Wonderful work.”

It’s all the proof I need to know she’s a crock.

Sitting back, I waste precious moments of my life, literally watching paint dry.

“It seems everyone is finished,” she says when she steps back onto the platform stage. “How are you all feeling?”

Again, more positive murmurings.

“Great. Now, what I would like you to do is share your creation with a friend.”

Oh god.

“I’m going to pair you up, and one at a time, I want you to reveal your painting to your partner and tell them one thing about it that you find to be a symbol of peace. Remember, only one thing. In return, your partner will say one compliment about your picture.”

She begins pointing to people, randomly pairing us off. As everyone moves around the room to sit next to their partners, she aims her finger at me, saying, “You there.” She scans the room to find who’s left, and to my misfortune, she selects Sebastian. “You two.”

Gritting my teeth, I watch as he stands and walks over. I kick the easel to angle my painting away from him when he sits next to me.

“Ladies first,” he suggests, and I roll my eyes.

“Fine,” I mutter beneath my breath, thankful that I don’t have to subject my actual happy place to the likes of him.

I flip my canvas around and prop it on my knees.

An unforeseen laugh busts out from his lips, and a few speckles of his spit fly out of his mouth and land on my picture.

“Gross,” I complain. “I just painted that.”

“It’s scary as fuck.”

“No, it isn’t.” I actually think I did a decent job considering. I pretty much nailed the giant, hunched-over troll with his lanky fingers, stringy hair, and one eye.

“What the hell is it?”

“It’s the Fremont Troll.”

“The what?”

“You seriously don’t know what the Fremont Troll is?”

“You mean you didn’t make this mutant up?”

I look at my painting and lift a subtle grin. “It’s a sculpture under the Aurora bridge in Seattle.”

“Andthisis your place of tranquility?”